


I haven't confessed this, and I'm not sure I ever will

by cyanidas



Series: ORAS Tales [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: (but only referenced), Death, Flashbacks, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Murder, Other, Past Child Abuse, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, its not graphic or anything but it might be upsetting...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 20:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17588015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanidas/pseuds/cyanidas
Summary: Maxie has another flashback to a traumatic event of which he is the only remaining survivor.





	I haven't confessed this, and I'm not sure I ever will

_"Did you love me?"_

  
A glass of water - he woke up for a glass of water.

Even still clinging to that thought as his trembling fingers clung to the glass, he could feel his strength loosen and give way to it...

this flashback...

His mind - this memory - told him that his father was standing in front of him. Sensory flickers, like a broken television screen, corrupted his sense of self and clouded at his vision with foggy yet vivid imprints.

He could feel his lips, his mouth and throat, forming the words that he did not speak - not then, and not now; _  
_

__  
"Did you ever love me, father?"  
  


His father. The sick bed. The hums of machines. The clacks of a cane against hardwood floors. The steam-pressed professional wear. Chemicals, he always smelled like chemicals - he was here with him, surely he was...?

**_  
"My own son..."_ **

  
His voice, cracked and grated down from years of a growing sickness - of old age - still resounding clear and harsh like a gut-punch, resonating more memories within memories, and unleashing a matryoshka of silent suffering that Maxie had endured all his childhood.

His wrinkled hand, skin cracking at its seams, reached up to a distant adult - to his child - _to Maxie,_ standing loyally still. As always, as instructed.

**_  
"My own son... is..."_ **

**_  
"a faliure..."_ **

  
The voice - his voice - his father, he was young again.

His father, full of vitality, reaching with malice to discipline the young Maxie - he grabbed him hard, hurting the eight-year-old's shoulder, scaring him into place.

_**  
"I will not tolerate this failure again, Maximilian."** _

  
His voice... stern. cold. sharp. As if each berating word were authoritative spats of acid.

Like a rusted razor dug out from underneath a shoebox, his voice - his _tone_ \- cut deep into the boy's heart.

Much like that same razor, did he feel the betrayal of something familiar to him, turning into something new, monstrous, and unforgiving.

  
_A tool of control._

  
His son shook, the boy's hands shook, and he could feel them become slippery from a cold sweat, weighted by his own insubordination. He was a failure, and failures are _hurt._

In many ways, he understood as well as his father did that he _deserved_  the scarring repercussions by the wretched disasters he sought in adulthood, and what pains were delivered unto him throughout his years alive.

The years of isolation. The loss of his dearest friends. The untimely death of his mother.

Each tear from his dried-out eyes. Each hard smack across the face. Each time he lost to an opponent.

_The possession..._

Only a failure would have ever experienced these hardships.

_  
-CRASH-_

  
What? _The kitchen!_

_He's in the kitchen!_

He's not there anymore, he's out, he's free, he's older, he's in the kitchen, he-- He...

_  
What just happened...?_

  
The kitchen. The noise, the noise - it was glass. Water. He's here for water.

There's a mess - did _he_ cause that? Was that him?

What _happened?_

Another...episode? ...What's the date, again...?

  
Oh god, the date. It's summer. The date, what's the fucking date, it's... it's... the...date is...

It's wrong.

He was wrong. He failed, he's failed again, he's-

  
****_"Son."_  
  


His heart stopped.

_**  
"Son, listen to me."** _

  
He can't breathe.

_**  
"My son is..."** _

  
_He couldn't breathe. His heart just stopped._

**_  
"My own son...is..."_ **

  
He's reaching, his hand is reaching, and he - Maxie - he has so many questions, but...!

His breath hitched. He's reaching for him, pleading, almost. The boy has so many questions. Maxie - young, growing, old...

  
Why did he hurt him?

Did he ever really love him?

Or was it always just a means to manipulate him?

Why did he say he loved him, when he...he would always...

**_  
"My own son is...finally...becoming a man..."_ **

  
He...

He's lying...

 

Right...?

 

  
The years of training. The fear-mongering. The social isolation. The physical damage. The emotional scarring.

All of this came together in an instant-!

The manipulation into his career choice. The Rocket training. Refusing him to see his own dying mother. Refusing him to see his best friend, Archie...!!  
  


  
He stopped breathing.

  
  
_No...he can't look at this again... He can't watch himself do this again..._

  
  
The whirs and sirens of the machines. The expression....his father's expression...it...

  
There was a weight in his hands. He felt cold as it fell from his trembling fingers, onto the floor in a clattering noise...

  
  
  
_the plug..._

  
  
Maxie quickly put it back into its socket.

  
His father was... gone, now...  
  


  
The medical team arrived, but he couldn't stifle himself, as he was used to doing by his father's hand for so long...

  
His hand over his own mouth, he tried to regain control as he fell into a panic. He felt himself slump onto the floor... linoleum...?

Wasn't this the hospital...?

  
Figures clamored around him. Voices blushed together. Strong arms wrapped around him.

That's...the team... right...? The medical team...

The white coats, the...

  
The heat... coming off of a crumbling ground bursting beneath his feet, bleeding with magma, and the face of the god who knows his rage and knows the sin he's committed...!

  
Panic gave way into screaming, but the grasp around him only got tighter, pulling him close in a cooling embrace.

There's mutters, he thinks, but he can't think really well at all, right now.

  
"I'M SORRY," came out of his mouth, "HIS HEART STOPPED BEATING, IT JUST STOPPED BEATING-!"

  
The mutters continued.

  
He, too, felt himself continue - but he couldn't even register his own words, let-alone the words of who or whatever was clinging to him.

 

  
All he wanted to ask was,

_"Did you ever love me, father?"_

but... he was always taught to ask questions he knew he could get the answer to.

  
He abstained.  
  


  
No matter what, he abstained.

  
  
No matter what... he...

\--

Maxie faded quickly. His vision sparkled, nearly cutting to black, and his body went limp.

Archie, still in pajamas, carried him out to the household vehicle. Another trip to the hospital - it was needed, and he wasn't going to waste any time with it.

In a few short moments, he was out of the door and on his way.

_"Hang in there, Maxie..."_


End file.
